


On the Banks of the Arno

by lousy_science



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), DC Cinematic Universe, Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Firenze | Florence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-25 00:57:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4940527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lousy_science/pseuds/lousy_science
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The hero of the Batman story got his happy ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Banks of the Arno

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Florence](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4499808) by [motetus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/motetus/pseuds/motetus). 



Alfred took his time walking back from the café, making his way slowly through side streets that served as backdrops for the guide books and tourist selfies. Knowing that Florence’s cobblestones required a little more of his attention to navigate, he thought how used he’d become to Gotham’s uniform straight lines and its pavements of finest American concrete. Wondered when a huge city on the wrong side of the Atlantic had become home, instead of just another place to seek refuge. 

He stepped carefully. There would be no glory in slipping and breaking his hip. 

On a narrow lane of no historical significance he stopped suddenly. Leaning his weight on a wall, he looked at the tight rows of houses packed like sardines on either side of the passage. It hadn’t occurred to him that he’d end up walking this way, when he was busy basking in Bruce’s toast. But this was where his feet had taken him, this street he’d avoided for decades, the site of an old heartbreak now just ten feet in front of him. 

This was where a love affair had finally ended, in the top floor of a small, butter-colored villa. Alfred’s eyes followed the wispy water pipe that clung to the wall like spiderweb, the solid door with chipped black paint that he’d once, only once, slammed shut behind him. He supposed this could be the very same wall he’d leaned on that evening, breathless after all the arguing. He’d faced the other way back then, stopped in his tracks by the vehemence of his own fury and sadness, but too stubborn to look back and see whether anyone had stood at the window to watch him go. That was the year when he began working for the Waynes. He supposed that he’d never slammed a single door ever since. 

When over the years he’d grown annoyed by Bruce’s willfulness, his heart had reminded him of that door and this street. Alfred owed Florence for what it had taught him. All he’d wanted for Bruce was to know that, with time, even the most ironclad heart could become supple, if given a chance to draw closer to another soul. That it was possible to move beyond pain, even a pain that felt as though it had already burnt up everything tender inside of you. 

A beaming young woman in a floral dress brushed past him. He smiled at her as she walked forward into the evening, already primed to break a dozen hearts, and thought what a ridiculous old fool he had become. Lingering around old haunts like a daffy bat. There was somewhere else more important for him to be. Slipping his hand into his jacket, he glanced at his pocket watch. He’d said he’d be there by four, and his legs were still strong enough to do it in good time. 

Alfred still remembered the clubs. These days he didn’t suppose his joints were up for too much dancing. And the music was always so loud. But there had been more than just solace to find there. He’d taken his first ecstasy tab in Florence, to Bruce’s eternal disapproval. He never knew how his Master Bruce had become such a puritan despite Alfred’s influence in his upbringing. 

Not that he’d be visiting any clubs on this trip. Lucius’s idea of a thrilling evening out was one where the audience knew better than to applaud between symphony movements. 

Lucius had picked the meeting spot, an _enoteca_ on the edge of the Piazza della Signoria that was expensive enough to be quiet while staying within ogling view of the reproduction of Michelangelo’s David. After weaving through heaving crowds of tourists, it was refreshing to see Lucius sitting at the table, waiting for him. If you didn’t know Lucius, or, like Bruce, you had certain blind spots around human emotion, you wouldn’t know that he had been worried. But Alfred knew what the afternoon had meant to both of them. He couldn’t wait to tell him good news for once. 

They had first met at a funeral. Alfred had been standing next to a young boy so wounded he couldn’t speak, couldn’t cry, could only hold himself up as rigid as a petrified tree. Alfred didn’t cry either, not then, as sore and terrified as he was. Across the gulf of two graves was a tall man, his face downcast. Then he lifted his eyes to meet Alfred’s, who saw searing pain flash across them. 

It would be years before they could talk without that ache coming between them. Years more before Alfred would permit himself say “Lucius” instead of “Mr. Fox.” 

Lucius lit up when Alfred sat down at the table, though his tone remained as dry as ever. 

“You’ve had your Fernet Branca?”

“I did. I’m getting to fulfill all my wishes on this holiday.”

Lucius looked over the Piazza as if he’d just noticed it. “Never understand how you can drink that stuff. Tastes like pond scum.”

He stretched out his hand for Alfred to clasp. 

“I suppose it’s not unlike your fondness for that rotgut Americans call whiskey,”

“Now, look here. My father drove trucks of that rotgut for twenty years to put my sisters and I through school.”

Alfred squeezed back, enjoying the game. “When we visited Amanda in October, she told me you put yourself through college hustling pool from one end of Memphis to the other.”

Lucius shook his head slowly and clucked his tongue. “Talking to my sister behind my back. I’d expect such underhanded tactics from Bruce, but you, Pennyworth…”

They sat still for a moment. Lucius kept his voice low. “How was he?”

“Good.” Alfred said it slowly, letting the smile spread out over his face. “He looked happy.”

Their young server approached the table and asked if the _signori_ would care for a drink. Alfred let Lucius order for them both, then watched him gaze after Fernando’s retreating backside. 

“I know what you’re thinking.”

Lucius almost looked genuinely outraged. “I was merely thinking that I should have asked whether they have a Brunello di Montalcino 1979, instead of the 2004 Sangiovese we ordered.”

“Of course you were. They do cut those uniforms very well, don’t they?”

Lifting his eyebrows, Lucius looked over to where Fernando was bending over a table and scrutinized his form. “I prefer Milanese tailoring, but these are acceptable.”

After their wine came they sat for a time in silence. The gift of being able to sit and not speak was precious. So much speech was clatter. 

Tomorrow they were visiting Santa Maria del Fiore. They had both seen it before, but never together. Alfred wondered if Lucius knew that in the fifteenth century, animals had been buried in the walls of the Cathedral’s dome. It was believed that they would provide protection and strength. 

He reached for Lucius’s hand again. Both of them understood the importance of safety, and how sometimes it came from a show of force. But sometimes it was a matter of signs and wonders, and how something as insubstantial as a feeling could hold up walls for five hundred years.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [khaleesian](http://archiveofourown.org/users/khaleesian/pseuds/khaleesian) for _sopraffino_ beta work, and [motetus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/motetus/pseuds/motetus) for the _bellissimo_ artwork.


End file.
